


Flying

by DoraTLG



Series: Ace [2]
Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Asexual!Q, Bond is Q's squish, Bondage, Dom/sub, M/M, Non-Sexual Bondage, Non-Sexual Intimacy, Non-Sexual Kink, Non-Sexual Submission, Shibari
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-11
Updated: 2018-08-11
Packaged: 2019-06-25 23:32:39
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,990
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15651189
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DoraTLG/pseuds/DoraTLG
Summary: Q thought he was confident in his desires, untroubled by his limited prospects in the dating sphere. Until he became James Bond's occasional sub and was confronted with the harsh reality.Our boys need to talk.





	Flying

Q could swear the whole Q branch’s attention was on him.

He rationally knew it wasn’t, but the knowledge that he was so deeply involved with the mission feed in front of him made him paranoid, conscious of every pair of eyes while trying very hard not to look at anyone in fear that _that_ would be what gave him away.

It was stupid. He shouldn’t care, or maybe he should, he wasn’t sure how… _this_ worked. The fact that James, no, Bond, no, _double oh seven,_ was currently having sex with a gorgeous, sensual, wanton woman (the wife of Andreas Kordas, one of the most influential drug dealers of Spain’s coastline) shouldn’t make his chest contract, it shouldn’t fill him with such sadness he was close to shedding a tear, it shouldn’t because he wasn’t Bond’s… anything. He was his occasional sub, yes. But that was it. Not strings attached. No sentiment needed.

They spent a few nights together. He was grateful for every one of them because Bond really knew what he was doing when it came to handling other people’s bodies. He was proving that to every Q branch employee currently at work right now. Q wasn’t brave enough to call him his Dom even in his own head exactly for this reason – Bond didn’t do relationships. And Q didn’t want an exclusive relationship with him anyway, never would expect that from an agent with duties out in the field and needs outside of it. Q couldn’t provide everything James wanted and he learned how to live with that.

Not to mention that Q was always afraid of commitment. He was happy with a casual arrangement for years, loved having friends with benefits – the benefits being non sexual but intense – and he always ran away from anyone who tried to pin him down. He liked having partners who had other partners, knowing that they were happy and he was happy, and no one felt obliged to fill all requirements of their partner.

It wasn’t that Q wanted that to change with Bond. He just wanted Bond to be… more.

He had a squish.

A squish, apart from being an incredibly cute word, was the name of an asexual crush. Having a squish was like wanting to eat but not knowing what. It was finding a person who fascinates you, makes you want to be close to them, be more to them than anyone else is, be special to them the way they are to you. Not romantically as much as… being their best friend in every way. It was a platonic pull towards someone with completely unformed idea of where it was going.

Q… liked Bond. Liked him very, very much. He wanted to be Bond’s sub, maybe not his only sub, but his special sub, and he knew he wasn’t special enough for that.

Seeing Bond with a woman that would make him satisfied in every way made him aware of the fact Bond would tire of him, stop wanting even the little he has to offer, and become distant.

However, double oh seven didn’t end up having sex with the woman. Not in the conservative catholic kind of way, anyway. Q turned off the coms so he and the rest of the room didn’t have to hear the sound of Bond’s tongue licking her very thoroughly, and only turned it on when the woman was heaving post-orgasm, her small breasts (what a change from the usual targets) rising and falling, and Bond was kissing her stomach, her protruding ribs, her neck.

“So…” the woman – Angelica – said, every syllable reminding Q of the cat that got the cream. He only understood thanks to several semesters of Spanish he took at university. It was a beautiful language. “Would this be the treatment I would get if I was your key witness?”

Q froze. Bond never told the woman anything about his plans – his plans involved telling her after _this_ encounter, when she was inclined to trust him more.

Bond, however, kept his cool, his body still relaxed, which they could see thanks to the camera he had to have on him at all times thanks to the new protocols, and which was now placed on the cabinet next to the door. Q was pretty sure Bond would ignore the protocols if he wasn’t such a show off.

“And here I was, hoping to have a beautiful night with you,” the agent’s voice carried through the coms.

“We don’t have the whole night,” Angelica stretched her whole body, writhing under the older man. “I know who you are, mister Bond. I appreciate your effort to make me trust you, I appreciate it very much, but you have to offer me more than a good orgasm to turn down all I have here. My husband can give me a good orgasm, too. He has a lot of experience.”

“You are covered in bruises,” Bond pointed out. “And they don’t look like the fun type to me.”

Q looked down to where his wrist was still healing from his last night with Bond – the bruise was almost completely faded.

“Sacrifices have to be made,” the woman’s voice was made of steel.

“What are they saying?” Q heard from the corner of the room. One of his techs was frowning, obviously trying to remember all three of the Duolingo lessons he’s taken.

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Q said, once again focusing on the conversation.

“You don’t have to live with a brute,” Bond said. “Doesn’t that sound good?”

“Oh, mister Bond,” Angelica laughed like he was a stupid child. “I’m not some damsel in distress. I am the head of his intelligence. I control this entire household. I have more money to my disposal than you could ever offer me. I don’t need you. So what if he likes to take it out on me every once in a while. I can take it.”

Q had to admire the woman. She just rose up, beat Bond’s expectations to a pulp, and showed him she held him in the palm of her hand. Q’s fingers itched wanting to turn on his side of the coms to tell Bond to get out of there, but he knew the agent was very good at sensing danger, and was probably two steps ahead of him already.

“What will happen if he finds out about me?” Bond asked.

“Oh, I’ll tell him,” she said. “Do you really think I would be so stupid and sleep with you if it put me into danger? He will be angry at me for letting you leave, but he knows better than to kill an English operative. And from now on it will be that much harder to get closer to him.”

Bond sat up, looking down at her in awe. “You are incredible.”

“Gracias,” she smiled languidly. “Now leave before I change my mind.”

Five minutes later, Bond was jumping the fence and running down the hill on which the villa stood.

“So, how many people saw that?” he asked bitterly and Q had to smirk. It wasn’t every day that James Bond was turned down by a beautiful woman in the middle of sex and kicked out without preamble, completely failing his mission.

“I wouldn’t worry about that,” Q said, trying to mask the amusement in his voice. He should be angry that the mission was a failure, but he honestly didn’t care much for some drug dealer a thousand miles away. Then, in Spanish, he added: “The question is, how many people that saw it speak Spanish?”

James growled in annoyance. “Are you enjoying this, Q?” he asked, still in Spanish.

“Me? Never. How could I enjoy seeing an agent fail so spectacularly and be proven wrong about women in one night?” maybe he really shouldn’t poke a very irritated dragon on coms that would be later stored at MI6, no matter how many people would understood him right now, but he couldn’t pass on the opportunity.

“Careful, Q,” Bond’s voice was heard in the whole of Q branch, but Q also had his own ear piece on and felt like Bond was growling into his ear. “I am not very happy… you don’t want to risk making it worse for yourself.”

Q shivered, thinking of all the ways Bond would make it so much _better_ for him.

He didn’t respond in fear of turning the conversation really dirty. Instead, he informed Bond of when the next flight was due from the near by airport and then booked him a seat. Bond would be touching the ground in four hours. At MI6 in five.

Five hours was enough to make Q talk himself out of letting Bond deliver on his threats. After Bond disconnected, he was left alone to his thoughts, which was always a bad thing. His insecurities all came rushing back, together with the sight of James on top of the beautiful Angelica, with the knowledge that Bond was there to have sex and wasn’t able to finish, and that he will want to finish as soon as possible and Q wasn’t the man for that job.

Not that Q didn’t… _do_ things for Bond. Sometimes. Rarely. At first, Bond didn’t want to let him, thought it was immoral, said he couldn’t enjoy it if Q forced himself to do it. Q wasn’t pushy enough to explain until Bond stopped a scene once because it was probably the fourth time Q asked to suck him off that month and James thought he needed to let him know properly that he was alright with Q’s asexuality. Q was forced to explain – and what an uncomfortable moment that was _._

“I don’t do it because I feel… obliged,” Q said, sitting on his bed, staring at Bond’s knees. “I just… I want to thank you. Express my gratitude. For what you do.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” James said, stroking Q’s ankle. “I don’t do it to get gratitude. I like what I do to you.”

“I know,” Q nodded. He didn’t completely understand why and how Bond would like it, but he didn’t argue. “But I still really want to thank you. It’s a need. A desire, if you will. It’s a part of… the whole submission thing. I want to make you feel good.”

After that, Bond let him. It wasn’t something Q wanted to do often because the whole experience wasn’t attractive to him, but sometimes he just felt that pull that made it all worth it.

Today wasn’t that day. He felt too bad about himself. Today was one of the days when anything remotely sexual would make him feel dirty. He knew himself enough to know that what he needed was finding someone who would make him forget Bond altogether.

It would have to wait. It was already dark when he left Six that day. It was the middle of July and heats were reaching record heights. Bond would only arrive to the country at around two in the morning, and would debrief the next day. Coincidentally, it would be a Tuesday, and Q could go to Anatomie, he would just need to get off work a bit early. He made all he could to be free by six, and, with one planned stop to his flat to change, would be at the studio by half seven.

He was just about to leave his flat when there was a knock at his door and he opened it to reveal Bond. No worse for wear, obviously rested and having shaken off his embarrassment from the night before. There was a duffel bag thrown over his left shoulder.

“Going somewhere?” James asked, taking off his shades. He looked like the devil and Q had a weakness for that. He had a weakness for anything Bond did.

“James,” Q said, trying to work out what to do now, if his plans would change. If he would let go of his worries and let James in, or if he would rip off the band-aid.

“I was going to Anatomie.”

The hard way it would be, then.

“Are you still going?” Bond leaned against the wall, watching him with guarded interest.

“I… I don’t know. Should I?”

James frowned.

“Anything you want to talk about, Q?”

Q took in a deep breath.

“Yeah,” he decided. “Yeah, let’s talk like adults.”

He let him in and made tea, because he was English, and that’s what he did.

“Can I spike it?” asked Bond when Q handed him a cup.

“Not if you don’t want me to call psych about your alcoholism,” Q said calmly. Bond made a face.

“Alright,” he said when he took a sip. “What’s wrong?”

God, Q hated these conversations. He was always so bad at expressing emotions. The teeth pulling metaphor came to mind.

The pause stretched. At first he was trying to find words, a way to start, sipping his tea. After a while, he gave up, hoping Bond would pick up the conversation from an end that would make it easier on him.

Finally, Bond sighed. “YI didn’t think I would find anyone worse at this than I am,” he said and Q almost snickered. “Do you want to end this?”

“No,” Q said immediately. “I don’t,” then, armouring himself – “I was afraid you would.”

James put the cup down.

“Why?”

Q didn’t respond straight away. Bond’s reaction made him almost hopeful that he was just imagining it, but once he will explain, Bond might agree with him.

“I can’t give you what you need,” he said. “I might be fun to play with for a while, but… you’ll tire of me. You’ll find someone more attractive… someone you will be happier with. Sexually.”

James kept his eyes on Q, Q kept his eyes on the coffee table. Tea table. He never drank coffee, he had the right to call it a tea table.

“Q, you don’t have to offer me the most of all. You’re not a car dealership.”

Q’s mouth turned up into a sad smile. “But you don’t stay… you don’t normally stay even with people that… cover all your needs.”

“Oh for fuck’s sake, Q, they’re not needs. They’re desires. If they were needs, nuns and catholic priests would die off like flies.”

He took the tea cup again and took a long sip, making a face. This time Q did look up at him.

“I don’t stay with people,” James said, more quietly. “… because every time I fall in love, I get stabbed in the back.”

Q had to look down again, remembering Bond’s relationship history.

“I do like sleeping with people,” James said, louder. With an air of definitiveness. “And I don’t think I would be able to stop. I don’t want to stop. But I won’t tire of you. So if you don’t want us to be exclusive, just tell me what you want and I can tell you if that’s something I would want.”

Q chewed his bottom lip, hugging his tea cup. Then he looked up, trying not to look too keen. Probably failing.

“I want you to be my Dom. I want to be yours. Not just during a scene. Always.”

Bond took a sip again and couldn’t help a little pleased smile.

“You think I will say no to having my own sub?” he asked, and Q’s stomach filled with warmth like he was a teenage girl.

He put the cup down, stood up, and made the two steps that parted him from the agent. He straddled his knees, sitting down into his lap, and was immediately drown down into a passionate kiss.

When Bond let him breathe, he felt like he could finally breathe after two days of holding it all in.

“And Q?” James added, stroking his back with one broad palm. “You won’t scare me off. I’ll tell you if I’m uncomfortable with something. That doesn’t mean I’ll leave because you let me have a toothbrush at your place.”

Q smiled down at the older man. He couldn’t help it, he was falling for the agent so hard he was fully expecting to crack his head once he landed.

“Good, because your breath is atrocious in the morning,” he answered and kissed him again.

*

That night, Q flew.

He had a hook in the ceiling because he had the money to spend and didn’t want to be limited in case his partner wanted to suspend him. Bond noted the hook the first time he stayed over, saying he would think Q was a serial killer if he didn’t know the truth, and Q told him he just might be.

Now he was clad in rope, completely naked apart from black boxer briefs, hanging mid air, his head almost touching the mattress while his legs were high up, the rope wound around above his hips keeping him at an angle. He was swinging in the air, disoriented thanks to the blindfold over his eyes. It felt like he was much higher, like there was nothing for miles around him, just the rope biting into his skin, leaving deep issue bruises and rope burns where he would treasure them for days.

James was still clothed, and would remain that way the whole night, just in a t shirt and some old sweats he left at Q’s flat for that purpose. Q preferred him that way. James was a bloody spectacle when naked and Q loved the sight of him, but looking and touching were two different things, and Q wasn’t overly pleased by naked skin touching his.

His legs were burning. His whole weight was held up mostly by his left thigh, and that was more than was pleasant, but he didn’t say a thing. He surrendered to the pain, because it was only pain. He would be alright when he was let down, the pain would leave, and he didn’t want to go down, so he didn’t let James know he was in discomfort.

His mind was drifting off anyway, and sometimes he would come to himself realizing he forgot the pain altogether. He was getting used to it, and discomfort was leaving to be replaced with serenity.

He purred when he felt James’ hands on him. He stroked along his back, all the way to his neck where he squeezed a few times before his hand went into his hair and massaged his sculp, alternating strokes with pulls and yanks. Then, his hand disappeared and an unidentified time later Q’s arse cheeks were hit with a whip.

He barely let out a surprised whelp. Next several hits made him cry out in pain. When that wasn’t enough, he started squirming in the bonds, which only made the ropes light up all the pain he forgot.

He struggled for only about two whacks and then surrendered, going limp in his bonds.

“Colour, Q?” James asked, taking a break from whipping him senseless.

“Green,” Q managed to rasp out before going back to his warm blankets of subspace. He was rewarded for his efforts with another head rub, and then James was kneading the abused flesh of his butt cheeks, making him whimper.

James whipped him until Q was crying. It wasn’t because the agent would be particularly sadistic, or Q particularly masochistic, more because Q liked having marks afterwards, bruises and welts he could admire in the mirror, and he was in a constant contest with himself over how much he could take. He liked the idea of being reduced to a crying mess and coming out of it with nothing more than the memory of sharp, biting stings once upon a time. And alright, James might be just a tad sadistic. Not like it’s a surprise, coming from a man that kills for a living.

When he finally stopped and started letting Q down, it was a mixture of relief and disappointment. He always felt like he could take just a bit more, just a bit harder, but that’s the thrill of it – the idea that next time he will. And if it was up to him, he’d be flying for hours, but the feeling of soft sheets against his heated skin made him want to curl up and never leave the bed.

The process of untying was just as magnetic as tying itself. The rope leaving the spots where it pressed deep marks into skin, the sensation of it dragging across his body, the loose ends hitting him when it got too long… and other things touching him, like the sheets, James’ skin, the evening breeze… Q always became ultrasensitive after a scene. Some parts of him hurt when touched – currently all his backside – and some lavished in the soft touches.

When he was completely free of all ropes, James let them rest on his body, loose and harmless, and he loved being covered by them. He didn’t move, his eyes closed, and some might have mistaken him for being asleep, but James knew better. He sat by him, caressing his back, stroking his curls, and then started sorting the ropes into neat little bundles.

When he was done, he pulled a duvet from the other side of the bed and covered Q’s whole body, only stopping at his chin so the younger man could breathe.

Q came to a few minutes later. He peaked out from under the duvet (the duvet felt spectacular and he wanted to live in it forever) and looked up to find the agent reading one of his coding books. His as in he wrote it.

James didn’t acknowledge him beyond reaching out a hand and starting to pet him the way Q liked it. He dropped his head again and just let himself savour it.

They didn’t speak for almost fifteen minutes. Q wanted to ask James if he understood the book, if he was truly taking it in or just so bored and unable to find anything better, but he couldn’t muster up the wit for banter yet.

“Thank you,” he finally said. James finally tore himself away from the book and smiled at him.

“Thank you,” he responded. “How are you feeling?”

Q stretched, feels every single muscle in his body sing, and got a dopy smile on his face.

“Good,” he purred. “Very good.”

James’s smile grew even more fond.

“You did wonderfully, pet,” he praised. “Your arse looks bloody amazing.”

Q considered looking, but ruled it out as too much energy spent on twisting under the covers, and told himself he’d check later. “Literally bloody?” he chanced to ask.

“You have a long way before being able to handle that,” James shook his head. “And I don’t think you’d like it afterwards.”

Q had to admit that the pain might be strangely rewarding during a scene, but the days after it could be a very unpleasant sensation, especially if you’re forced to sit down. Hence the reason he liked to stand at his desk.

He finally mustered some strength to shimmy himself closer to Bond and lay his head in the older man’s lap.

“What’s the book like?” he asked, closing his eyes when James began massaging his neck.

“Like written in another language,” James said. “But it makes me sleepy.”

Q laughed weakly. “I’m glad it serves at least one purpose.”

James hummed. He put the book aside and leaned back against the pillows, still kneading the muscles at Q’s nape.

“I should brush my teeth,” he said and immediately yawned.

“They’ll be there in the morning,” Q replied, already half asleep.

They fell asleep like that, only to rearrange during the night when Q woke up to go to the toilet. He found his way to James’ arms afterwards, and slept full twelve hours, just like every time after an intense scene.


End file.
